Midnight In His Office

(Lior’s POV)

If my rent wasn’t bleeding me dry, I’d have quit this job a long time ago. Not because I hate it… okay, maybe a little, but mostly because working under Adrian Valehart is like living inside a pressure cooker. He’s the kind of man who can make a “good morning” feel like a performance review. Sharp suit. Sharper jawline. And eyes that could kill you or kiss you, depending on the day.

And today? I was determined to stay as far away from him as possible.

The morning started harmless enough. I woke up late, because obviously my alarm clock is an enemy of progress. My sheets were tangled around me like I’d been fighting demons in my sleep. I stumbled into the bathroom, dragged my hair into something resembling human order, and hopped into the shower.

Hot water. Steam. Me humming that one song that’s been rotting my brain for three weeks.

I got out, dripping and lazy, wrapped in my towel. My phone buzzed.

[Jay]: Did you meet him last night? 👀

[Me]: Nah. Got ghosted. Again.

[Jay]: Bro. Unacceptable.

We went back and forth, and somewhere between laughing at his memes and sipping my coffee, I made a decision. Jay was always telling me to “put myself out there more.” So, I did what any sleep-deprived, post-shower, underpaid twenty-something would do.

I aimed the phone. Tilted my head. Bit my lip. Dropped the towel just enough to make it suggestive, not desperate. You know… art.

Snap.

It wasn’t supposed to be that big a deal. Jay’s seen worse. But I’m a perfectionist, so I took another one, better angle, more skin, less “oops, my plant is dead in the background.”

And then my phone decided to commit career suicide.

One wrong tap. My half-naked masterpiece flew into cyberspace… straight to the second last open chat.

Not Jay.

Adrian. Freaking. Valehart.

My boss.

And he views it immediately!! I didn't get the chance to delete shit.

I froze. My brain made the Windows error noise. My soul left my body.

Three dots appeared. Then it disappeared. Then… nothing.

Silence.

I threw my phone on the bed like it was cursed. Maybe if I pretended it didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe I could run away and become a sheep farmer in New Zealand.

But instead, I put on the most boring work clothes I owned, because God forbid he think I was… inviting something.

By the time I dragged myself into work, my coffee was doing less for me than a placebo sugar pill. I had half a mind to just quit before I even clocked in, but rent exists, so here I am.

The moment I got to my office, I locked in, hoping to get through the day without having to face him even though my office is literally in the corner of his.

Work was a blur. I avoided his office. He didn’t call for me. Lunch came and went, and I almost convinced myself I’d gotten away with it.

Then, just before closing, his voice came over the intercom:

“Lior. My office.” My soul left my body, filed for divorce, and moved to Bali.

I swallowed hard, walked in, and he shut the door behind me. The click was louder than it had any right to be.

Adrian didn’t say a word. He just slid his phone across the desk. My photo, that photo, stared back at me.

He leaned forward, voice low and unreadable.

“You sent me this. Was it an accident… or an invitation?”

“Accident. Definitely accident. Triple accident. World-record accident,” I babbled, hands waving in panic like that might erase the image from existence.

One dark brow lifted. “Hmm.”

I waited for him to tell me I was fired. Or to hand me HR’s number. Or to say literally anything else. Instead, he leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “Stay after hours tonight. We’re going to discuss your… professionalism.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but my paycheck flashed before my eyes. “Fine,” I muttered. “Whatever.”

Except “whatever” turned out to be the stupidest thing I could have agreed to.

The office after 7 p.m. is a ghost town. No ringing phones, no clacking keyboards, no Karen from accounting microwaving fish. Just me, hunched over my desk, pretending to work while knowing Adrian was still in his office.

Everyone had clocked out, except me, because apparently, my survival instinct decided to go on sabbatical.

When the clock hit 7:30, his door opened. “In here,” he said.

I went in. He shut the door behind me—again—and walked over, closing the distance like a predator that already knows the prey’s cornered.

“Let’s talk about boundaries,” he murmured, stepping in so close I caught the clean, sharp scent of his cologne.

My pulse was in my throat. “Boundaries are great. Love boundaries. Big fan.”

He reached up, and adjusted my tie like it was the most natural thing in the world. Except his fingers lingered just a second too long at my collarbone. Then his thumb brushed against my throat in a way that was definitely not in the employee handbook.

My body froze, then heated. This was not okay. And yet… I didn’t move.

“It was a mistake,” I whispered, my voice shaky.

Adrian’s lips curved into the kind of smirk people write fanfiction about. He leaned in until his breath warmed my ear. “So,” he began, leaning against his desk, arms folded, eyes on me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve. “We’re going to talk about what you sent me this morning.”

“Oh, God.” I covered my face with my hands. “It was a mistake. Obviously. I meant to send it to someone else.”

“Someone else?” His eyebrow arched. “And who exactly gets photos of you… fresh out of the shower?”

“I—” Nope. Not finishing that sentence. “It’s not what it looked like.”

“It looked,” he said slowly, “like you, completely bare, looking straight into the camera, all flirty.”

“Right, well… cameras lie sometimes?”

He laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that made me feel both stupid and… warm in places I’m not proud of.

“You avoided me all day.”

“Because I was embarrassed!”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” he said, standing now, closing the space between us. “But you do need to be careful. If that photo had gone to someone else in this building…”

“Trust me, I’d be applying for jobs in Antarctica by now.”

“Mm,” he hummed, tilting his head. “You’ve been my PA for a year, Lior. I’ve seen you flustered, I’ve seen you annoyed, I’ve seen you smug. But I’ve never seen you look like you did in that picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hungry.” The way he said it, I didn't need a translator to tell he didn't mean food hungry.

Oh. Oh, no. Absolutely not. My brain was already short-circuiting, but now it decided to play a highlight reel of the moment I took that picture, wet hair, towel slipping, me thinking, damn, I look good, before sending it to… the wrong damn chat.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He’s so close now I can feel the heat coming off him. “And I think…” He lets the sentence hang, like bait. “…you’re still looking at me like that now.”

“I’m not!” Which is a lie, because I am.

“You keep saying it was a mistake,” he murmurs, stepping just close enough that the air feels heavier. “And maybe it was. But the way I see it…” His gaze drags down my face, to my mouth, to the line of my throat. “…mistakes are only bad if you don’t learn from them.”

I swallow hard. “And what exactly am I supposed to learn?”

“How to send the right things… to the right person. Or perhaps, how to own up to your “accidental” sends.”

Somewhere deep down, my dignity is screaming at me to leave. But my legs? Statues. My lungs? Not functioning.

He steps back finally, breaking the moment like he didn’t just set my nervous system on fire.

“Go home, Lior.”

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me. Go home. Think about whether you’re going to keep avoiding me… or whether you’re going to own what you sent me.”

The worst part?

I knew damn well which one I was going to choose.